I haven’t rested
in several days
and all the energy
I ‘ve invested
does not pay
back anything but
black rays of pain.

My mind is foggy,
my fingers fumble.
I am not coherent.
I merely mumble
as I stumble out
to deal with my doubt.

So, tired and I need
just a little bit of
sweet relief sleep.

My eyes are red.
My head is sore
I’d like an hour
but could take seven more.

My vision blurs,
and smoky mists
split apart in front of me
even though I know
they don’t exist.

Little off white flakes
fall like fake
snow,
but I know this is more ash
to feed the fast growing
sleep deprived madness
that I am showing.

The screen is becoming
a blur of red marks
meant to remind me
that my spelling
is worsening,

and I can’t find the end
of this late-night poem
because I am so freaking
tired.

It’s been said in songs
but you forget,
been written down
but you won’t let
the truth overcome.

We need to breath
collectively,
so won’t you please
get off our necks?

We need to see
stranger’s as family
and keep the violence
in check.

Life is change.
The world is strange,
and danger is
gonna come,

but the only way
we make humans great
is when we come together;
When we celebrate love
and stop letting other’s
elevate their hate.

I am pretty sure
that this pretty girl
is going to wreck
my fragile world.

I’ve spent a lifetime
hardening my skin
to keep anyone
from creeping in;

But my barriers
have been dropping,
and this lead heart
has stopped stopping
potential intruders.

I feel very vulnerable,
like she is going to go
and turn my armor plating
into something pliable
and I am liable
to let go of my old
cold septic skeptic soul.

She is a rush,
as my breath
exists thus,
what this addict craves
that which will enslave
as I cave
to her encroachment,

and we haven’t even
had our first date.

I am not noble enough
to sacrifice it all
in the name of love;

To feel each bullet
that was born of hate
fly through my skin,

To stand and march
and see my heart
get broken again,

To feel my pride,
being barely sustained
as I push on
when I know
that I push in vain.

I am not a king
among men,
nor princely in stance,

I am not a knight
made for the battlefield,
not a soldier who cannot yield.

I am more of a mix,
clowning jester,
sagely bard,
lonely lover
who writes with heart
to remind you how
others feel.

Now, I kneel
to your steel,
throat exposed
in fancy prose
cause I am not a hero
but maybe
just a little bit of
a martyr lately.

There is no justice today,
when allies say wait.

When they need to get paid
to keep their people saved.
So, the truth coming out
might be a little delayed,
but please just wait.

When fear of violence
keeps white allies silenced,
but they forget
fears where this ****
starts.

When I sit back and write
with a hollow sense of pride
but I’m not a ride or die ally.

I am the good man
who says he understands
social justice demands
in facebook posts,
and when I’ve paid
lip service to those
hurting,
I go back to my
comfortable life.

This time the excuse
that I honestly use
is fear of covid 19,
but the last time
I could’ve helped,
I was writing out my guilt
to help myself.

I haven’t stepped foot in the fray
since 2011
when I was advocating
for the rights of lesbians,
transgenders, and gays.

So, this is my shame,
such a stupid hypocrite
cause better men then me
are on the streets getting hit,
marginalized,
terrorized ,
brutalized,
while I get to wake up
and live a pretty tame life.

I am the stone you skipped,
the heart you forget
as soon as you let go of it.

I am the lost horizon
once the hot guy comes in,
and you leave favoring him.

I the note not played
and the loss of it changes
the whole freaking arrangement.

I am the man you abandoned
because of your derangement
as you fawn over an *******
who can’t even pass anger management.

So, when you cry and ask
why you can’t find a good guy
I’ll cry and laugh at the madness
of even trying to be kind.

Staring at the stars,
never got me very far,
as far as you could see.

But in my head
when all was dead
I was flying free.

After earth and beyond,
in the time when
you all were gone
I moved on.

Solar sails
spread about
and there was not
a trace of doubt
to hold me back
as I traveled beyond the black.

Staring at the stars and past
as light years passed,
new questions asked
were mine to answer.

This cosmic dancer
swirled in the void
to explore and avoid
being destroyed
like my predecessor.

The one successor
to humanity’s endeavors,
the very clever me.

I do not look back
at my precious planet
but forever flee,
so I never have to see
the scorched scarred
planetary
destruction that haunts me. 

Now, I stare lovingly
out at the space
that beckons me
to travel in infinity.

Sparkling spiral galaxies,
unknown potentialities,
all these fantasies belong to me
as I daydream
staring at the stars.

I am sorry,
but do not
bother comforting me.

I am crying right now
but you will not read
this poem for many weeks
after this sadness
has passed.

These are not tears
of self-pity.
The water works
are because it hurts
to see others get hurt.

This isn’t a woe is me
small set of verses
for people to see.
This is saltwater anguish
as I watch others suffering.
This is outrage
at the outright inhuman displays
that these authoritarians play
as they spray mace
in a little child’s face
while her mother is
looking the other way.

This is a tongue held so often
that my own words
can no longer soften
this brutal reality.

This is my shame,
cause I claim
to be a good person
but I am not out on the street
with other protesters
cutting my teeth
letting cops bludgeoning me
with their nightsticks.

Paperback writer,
write a worthy
tale of a dreamer
dying in a
sleeping city.

Little novelist,
tell the stories
of life’s goriest
victories,
when irony
overcame sanity
and we suffered
the saddest defeat
at our own
oiled winner’s
seat of cold
winter stone.

A hollow helping
of hordes of harpies
seeking happiness
in grand acts of
capitalistic solidarity.

Weary weaver
unravel your yarn
and spin me
a better ending
then the one
I see coming,
because your twists
have become
too easy to predict.
Your stories usually
play out like promised
by the unartistic establishment
and I would like that to
change just a bit.

So, lets fix this ****
and turn reality
into the work of poetry, I know it can be.

I am not sick,
or a sociopath,
but I’ve got years
of watching people
laugh at that
which should bring tears.

So, when I see
a young girl crying
in solidarity
with the suffering
of a stranger,

I think it is beautiful,
and I cry to.

When I know you
can sympathize
with guys
whose lives
are so different,

Then the numbness,
the cold shield
that I built
to block myself
from feeling,
slowly starts melting,
the tears start falling,
and I finally feel
connected.

Not a country simpleton,
not the typical bumpkin.
Don’t have time to try and fit in
this redneck city I’ve been
living in
since before I was ten.

I am the last and first
best and worst
of my kind.

Devoured too many books to count,
searching for the fount
of knowledge and compassion,
searching for new question
to great unknown answers.

I am the last and first
best and worst
of my kind.

Lost myself in star lit skies,
with clouds that stretch back
far enough to revisit my past,
admired the massive black tapestry
that seems to be punctured by
light holes from some unknown
set of new realities,
each one having its own star’s
worth of gravity.

I am the last and first
best and worst
of my kind.

Not looking for the eternal soul,
and any form of immortality
just seems like a sick joke.
Instead I keep pushing on.

I am the last and first
best and worst
of my kind.

I’ll keep going on till this particular
configuration of particles
ceases seeking
new ideas that keep speaking
poetry into my being.

I am the last and first
best and worst
of my kind.

Lonely, I watch
strangers from the dock
stand up in time to fall off
and get lost in the brine.

I watch others
going under
as their vessels
start to sink,
and the floating wood
falls away
under the horizon
I was eying.

I see the seas,
and these
foolish dudes who
get lit and want to
plunder you,
in their sick slick siege
of these shipwrecked cities.

Thick lips
that drip with
ill-intent
from their fist,
swearing
they aren’t wearing
the flags of the elite.

Eyes of defeat,
I can almost hear you think,
“Wouldn’t it be
super sweet
to surrender?”

My fellow
dock dwellers
fall in line
whilst I sneak off
the dock to find
a safer seaport.

There’s a whisper in the darkness.
There’s a shallow breath that calls us.
There’s a moment in the shadow
when the light comes bursting through.

As the blackness is dispelled
and the cold weather retreats,

As the winter returns
all that lost spring heat,

As the bird begin their seasoned production
of life’s renewal,

I will recall your small gentle smile
and how it was a glimmering jewel.

There’s a whisper in the darkness.
There’s a shallow breath that calls us.
There’s a moment in the shadow
when the light comes bursting through.

Tomorrow does not exist
and yesterday will not be missed
there is only these fleeting moments,
let me enjoy them while I can.

Till the light I see collapses
and my body cannot move.
Till all my memories are lapses
and I never find the missing clues
to glue them back together.

Then the light will retreat,
and the shadows will descend
and there will be no more whispers
or softs breaths from any friends.

After the plowshares
have been turned
into swords,
and we have been
conquered by
make believe lords,

I will bend a knee,
take a boot to my neck
let you see me
be put in check,

just to prove that we
are brethren,
and we can stand
together again.

I will write
a sharp and
contrasting light
to provide
hope in this
damning night.

Sending sweet
splinters of my
being
for anyone to see,
I will sing
“I love thee”
and be grateful
for this chance
to live.

It’s the internet
and I hate it,
dealing daily with
raving lunatics.

On a regular basis
I see raging faces
of uniformed racist
ranting about baseless
accusations.

I thought I had the solution,
to the mass confusion
generated by
all those pasty old guys.

I was certain,
and I rationalized
that once they realized
that the fox news dudes
we’re feeding them lies,
they would come around
to my point of view.

What a sweet certain avenue
I followed you through
thinking reasoning was needed
and that it would change you who
truly believed in the hate that you seeded.

But now I admit I am defeated.
As far as I can see
some people are not open
to changing and growing.

No more tears left in me,
so back to my bubble I go,
where my people agree
and know what I know,
a safe space where I will stay,
cause while the world burns
I am certain to be squirreled away
with the rest of my disheartened,
dry eyed dying idealists.

When it’s finally over
and you sign the disclosure
to satisfy this sick
back room deal closer,

when you bend down
to submit to the controller
that hellfire holder
who was bolder
than the wiser
and the older,

I will kiss
the sharp bits
that ripped
at your lips
and bleed
the same
pain as you.

I will scrape
the nape
of my neck
till my spinal cord
is open to explore
and you can see
all the electricity
that makes me, me.

I will stand and confess
that you were
the worse and the best
parts of my humanity.

I find my humanity
in stories,
in Japanese Anime
and cool manga,
where all those heroes
spring from things
that seem unbearable.

I find my humanity
in far flung fantasies,
of fictional realities
where characters strive to be
better than they were previously,
where they are constantly
working and growing like me.

I find my humanity
in flowing verses of poetry
that sweep stale cobwebs
from my sad cluttered head
and help me see things differently,
which is what my scifi perspectives
also offer me.

Even though, sorrow stains my
poetic flows,
bringing in
cynicism,
and anger towards my fellow men.
Even when people tend
toward hateful trends
of violence, sexism, racism,

somewhere in the art I love
lay similar hearts of
humane ambition,
of nuclear fission,
of dreamers on a mission,
and there my humanity
is frequently restored to me.

I’ll rock this ride,
till the day I die,
driving high
into the night.

Tired as I am
I move with
no plan,
just step
one foot forward
away from the herd.

The spirit that resides
is the light that I
give to this life.

Engine full throttle
no time to coddle,
the cattle is coming,
and I keep on running.

So, I drive
moving in time
as each glow
fades fast behind
and I know
I will not find
a single second
returned to me.

I won’t miss me
when I am gone,
and I am sorry
if I was wrong
but this river
only runs
in one direction.

It’s too late to be forgiven.
In truth I was merely living,
not trying to fit in
but still getting
too comfortable with
just trying to exist
in mere moments.

I wasn’t a pretty party guy
who was trying to get high.
I’m pretty sure I was
sound of mind,
so, the fact that I did not make time
to visit my transient treasures
that were slowly disintegrating,
that fact that I left loved ones
alone and dying
without really trying to go see them.

That is my sin,
and one I seem hell bent
on sadly repeating.

I am not a really fit
dude who can take
a super anime hit.

Even though, I
have a great gift
that lets me
write a bit
I don’t expect
my words will
change ****.

I am smarter than
most humans,
but this brain I have
won’t solve the world’s
problems,
won’t beat
the greedy goblins
that I meet.

I can make people laugh
but I know that
is not uncommon.

So, my greatest aspect,
or so
I suspect
is my gentle disposition,
desire to show respect
and above all else
be kind.

I drive against the wind
and watch the wheat bend
racing away
in the opposite direction.

I see the solar glare
stain my rearview mirror.
It is almost blinding,
reminding
me
of the glint
in her glasses.

It is nice to drive away.
Even though,
I was ready to stay,
she took that
decision away,
but I’m ok.

I wash my work clothes,
then softly scrub
the last remnants
of her perfume
from my tired flesh.

I erase
everything
she ever sent me,
every message,
every picture,
but I can't
bring myself
to delete
the seven digits
that could still
connect us.

I'm ready to move on
but not ready
to move on that far,
not yet.

To be loved is great,
but to be love
is to elevate
others
before yourself.

It is to write
a world of compassion,
to press kind imprints
of humane intents
on the hearts of
women and men
whom you meet.

It is what I long to be
not a president or a king
but a leader of empathy,

an avatar of love
and peace.

Why are there so many jingles about snacks cakes
and all of the other treats that little Debbie makes,

and why when I stargaze,
is it donuts that I crave?

I know that it’s disgusting,
makes me slow, and poor at adjusting,
while it has my pink gut busting.

Still, it’s the junk food that I love
even though, I know what does.

Why does my body
desire what’s unhealthy
especially when I am tired?

Have I been preprogrammed
or am I a ******* addict.

I was raised
in the place
you set ablaze
with your venomous hate,

sat astute
in my Sunday suit
to salute
a god who rebukes
real wisdom,

forced to worship
a sic sorcerer,
that enforcer
for the acts of
crueler dictators,

but I’d prefer
to speak plain,
to abstain
from the mundane
which chained
my childhood
to no good
creeps and cheats.

I’d like to set sail
and prevail
against those
who would jail
innocents
in favor of
corporate interests;

To beat thieves
who seek to
take these dreams
and make fortunes
in ashes and destruction.

I know some promises
can’t be kept,
and I can’t expect
to make the world better,
but I’d like to be
a man who tried.

It used to be
that you and me
could be together,
but the cold wind
is blowing in
this wicked weather
and forever
has changed to
never ever.

I used to see
dreams swirling free
and on those days
those glowing bays
glimmered as they
flowed away,
shimmering
above swimming
folks at play,
that were bathed
in bent rays
of happiness.

Now, I know
that hope
does not exist.

I try to smile freely
give my all gratefully
not expecting
much of anything
and nothing
much is returned to me.

Yesterday,
was not great
and tomorrow
is no gravy train.

The future
comes in too cold,
and I am a tired old man
biding my timecont.
till I am dying
on the company dime.

If I could live in
an eternal state of
the sun setting and rising
with dark night
starlight twinkles
interspersed
in cosmic bursts
of transient glory.

If I could **** the chaos
of daily moving
from one maddening moment
to the next mad rush
as we brush by people
we will never meet
on these cacophonous
streets.

If I could feel the quiet
invade my being
going deep and drawing
from the dark depths
that I possess
to create poetry
that is less of a mess
then my usual
lines.

I think I would be fine
with all that lonely time,
with the inevitable ache
of being awake
in a world void
of people.
Even though,
I know
it would bring
some old familiar sting,

the beauty of creating
something
truly inspiring
would be worth the price.

I am a bit of a thief,
a killer king
stealing things
that are not mine,
to write
another line.

I pilfered
the filtered
through which others see,
to expand
the breadth
of what I understand.

I leveraged
past experiences,
to supplement my view
that despite my ambitions
come off slightly skewed.

I even bargained
and borrowed
my voice
from tomorrow,
so I could pass
pleasant wisdom
down to
all who
come to
view
this poetry
I wrote.

I remember her so dearly.
The third-grade girl
who chased me.

Cherubic face
blushing
while I ran away.
Now I wished
that I had stayed,
letting her catch me.

Similar soul,
I know
we were reading
the same books and
standing on the outside
of the same social life.
We talked a bit
and went on one date
but by the time I realized
she was something special
it was far too late.

Not all things
work out for the best,
but facebook pictures
makes me think
she is pretty happy,
so I am happy for her.

I once held
high ideals.

Hoping that I
would not sit
idly by
while others tried
to use and abuse
the disenfranchised.

Hoping that I
could use my creativity
to wake and relate all people
to their dormant humanity.

Hoping that I
would not turn
a blind eye
to a person in pain,
or a person being shamed
for that which
they have no power
to change.

Hoping that I
would never act unkind,
betraying those things
I held dear to my being,
such grand moral standards.

I failed and still do,
in favor of self-comforting,
in accepting the view
that nothing I do
matters.

I failed faltering
in moments of weakness,
and sadly I
still fail to rise
to the levels
I wished to reach
and fly.

I stutter.
I shudder.
I rage;
When I am calmly
trying to explain,
instead of having a
debate
on race and hate.

I cry,
cause I can
hear the pain
when people
try and describe
the horrors
from which they came,
while knowing
no matter if
they are showing
true scars of abuse
the world will still view
them as an other.

It is obvious to me
when I study history.
I can clearly see
said sorry tragedy
of human suffering.

No specifics to share
cause this is just a poem
to say that I care,
and despair
of seeing
indifference
or people not believing
what others are experiencing
after four hundred plus years of proof.

When your answer to
me telling you
what’s going on,
is “but what about
the deep state,
Bill Gates,
five G,
that’s antifa,”
or “that just
fake news”

What is the use
of telling you
the truth
in verse
when you
haven’t heard
a single word
whispered,
yelled,
cried,
or transcribed
about the
horrors committed
in people’s lives.

The heart that has been haloed
by horrible years of abuse,
ill-used still learns to view
the world with love
and tidal waves of
compassion.

The mind that has been
constantly poisoned
by ruthless men
and heartless women,
still finds that little
sparkling light
to push back the snakes
that slither in the night.

The person
who could have been
horrible,
but chose instead
to take the terrors
that stir in his head
and brew a better
not bitter being.

May not be the prettiest thing,
but is far more beautiful than
any Hollywood fantasy.

A noble nation
would not distract
from the facts
that hurt.

Fairness,
and justice
would not be words
bandied about
without
a single thought of
those who
suffer out of view
from you.

Our dark history
would not be
whitewashed
for general
complacency.
You would be
forced to face
previous tragedies.

Melanin
in a stranger’s skin
would not
make them
kin or not kin.
We would not judge them
or sit and pretend
to be color blind
when seeing color
is not the problem
we are trying to solve.

It would not absolve
the behaviors
of civil war slavers
elevating hating
to a monumental
status.

A noble nation
would see the struggles
each person is facing
and desire
to help all achieve
the “American dream”
of which they so
highly speak.

I’ve dealt with fascist,
super A type asshats
that want to control everything.
They are frequently strictly
overmanaging me.

I am not conservative or liberal.
I am poetic not literal,
so please don’t feed me your vitriol.

I got no political agenda
except to convince you
to basically just be
a kinder collectively.

So, give me less attitude
and I will give you
a life lived with gratitude.

Its work time and I am
earning my pay
by seeing the day
fade quickly away,
while I am forced to
stay glued to
the CCTV
I watch for security.

Camera distortions
of strange changing proportions
shift from shades of blue
to blobs of green,

as my fatigued brain is sprained
trying to come up with
some sort of quiet game.

I listen to the cooling system.
I listen to the elevator.
I listen to the world outside
wishing that it was so much later.

They beat the candy blues
into her thoughts,
as she sought
and bought
the sugary sweet,
multicolored gum drops
which were used
to subdue
her hunger pains,
but did nothing to
nourish healthy views
of living.

They trained her
to comply
to an almighty on high
father figure,
white bearded guy.

Whilst televangelist
propagated
hateful ****
pompously
requesting those
who were suffering
in poverty
to send them
the money they needed
to maintain their greed.

They were teaching her
that the measure
you need to reach
to say you succeeded,
is a measuring stick
that tends to extend
beyond previous
measurement.

But she bought
the glittering jewels,
sought to capture
her fantasy alpha male fool,
and achieve
the American dream
in which she believed.

The director,
stage setter
for this actor;

What matters
is the placard
that they place there
to mark a space
for time to air
a multi-verse
of unanswered prayers.

Axe dropped,
action stopped,
“Cut!”
I hear,
because we are
being very clear
that every movement
is staged,
played for some purpose.

Perhaps to breaks us
of the meaning we love
to make out of chaos
or maybe the design
to help us find
the opposite
of chaotic.

Razor shifts,
cutting through the mist
of madness
as we paint this
world with a stained plaid dress
that turns from two shades
to darker wet reds.

What a mess this **** is.
I say we edit it at the end.

I wonder
wordlessly,
wearied
and alone.

Sometimes
I stumble,
a bumbler
who cannot
make his way
back to a home
that was never safe.

Then on a whim
I will catch
a hint of her,
chilling my thoughts.
I will find
myself thinking
what I should not
cause she was never
a healthy obsession.

I meander over
online conversations,
equal tumblr confessions
of our shared affections,
and slip into states of
melancholia love
wondering if
she ever thinks about me,
or if I was just a blip
that doesn’t even register
in her memory.

Life’s the poison that you make
to take as your breakfast shake
just to go out and face
the coal and the rake
that runs you down
and burns you all over the place,
and the symptoms that you see
are the result of our shared social disease.

Some grow immune.
Some just get dull,
and nothing is all
that they can feel.

Some spend a life
in states of stress
burning through
the brain they have
till they’re broken
and raving mad.

I’ve lost the road.
forgotten
that this life
is rotting,
so I should be fighting.

Never seen
this song I sing,
just kept writing
trying to set fire
to the ground
were lost soul
were found.

Lava like fury
working in a hurry,
searching
for the end
of all this hurting,
whilst seeking the speaking
of dreams
into reality.

So, I am coming home
to a place that never was
creating my space of love.

I am so tired.
Can I sleep?
Will they let me
rest in peace?

I could use
a little laugh,
and a couple
cat naps.

Exhaustion
is the norm,
fatigue
fits my
full form.

Like a worm
that works
its way in
till my whole
body is shrinking,
till I wither
and I fall
barely able
to stand or crawl.

Coffee
is a sweet reprieve
but its effects
are very brief.

Can I please,
just go to sleep.

Look the city is burning.
Can you see it?
This will not be
super flashy
or rise up like a phoenix.

Sleepless eyes
are set in red
aching dry
from crying
for the dead;

While shaking fist
chant and resist
the oppressiveness
that lit this ****
to begin with.

Violence
erupts,
but it was expected,
from seeing the shame
of those who claim
they should be respected
whilst acting like thugs.

It is an irony
that they don’t seem to see
begging for relief
from a similar anxiety
which they imposed
on those
who are just asking for
the grace of human decency.

The city settles
the chaos will resume shortly
and I watch brave warriors
struggle to catch
their tear gassed breathes.

I’ve seen one fragile body
go from zero to sixty,
go from nothing to anxiety
and shaking
then to thin arms of rage
and a voice made for breaking
those she loved.

I’ve seen the thin lines
on her skin
as the child tries to
take what tears her up from within
and pull out all of her feelings.

I’ve seen a grown man
break down and cry
unable to verbalize why.

I’ve watched the world
and felts its pain
but seldom got up
to save them all
and that is my personal shame.

The sun strays
as its ray
fall *******
the yard that
is long gone,
mud dried
to the point of dust,
green grass
a thing of the past.

No one remembers
what a lawn chair was,
or when
the summer went
so slow
as the old folks
sat in the yard
and yacked on
about some thing
us younglings
didn’t have
any interest in.

The flower bed
is long dead,
stone blocks
now play border
to a wasteland
of forgotten
garden dreams.

The old occupants
have long since
passed
and all that is left
are memories
and even they
will not last.

Forget about
tomorrow.

All that you have
is the sweet sweltering
summer night,

one moment
right now.

The hourglass
was never our friend
cause we were just
blurs blown in the wind.

The air leaves
a sour taste
while time leaves
more wrinkles
on this human race.

A grey beard
doesn't denote
superior wisdom
or intellectual growth.
It doesn't guarantee
that the life we see
was lived happily
or even with
a sullen ease.

It just means
the wearer
lived on
a slightly
longer lease.

I am not depressed.
I’m just revisiting
similar settings
where I was possessed
by depths
of melancholia
that I thought
no longer had
any hold on me.

I am not crying
except in dreams,
from which I wake
to escape sad scenes
of strange things
that never happened.

I not despondent.
I’m sure I will
respond if
someone
asks me to.

But this room does feel cold.
I have been sleeping a lot today.
Need to workout
but my gym is closed
and I have forgotten
how it feels to be passionate enough
to workout at home.

I am fine.
I swear that everything is ok.
I’ll see you tomorrow
whilst I stew over
the pains that slew
my yesterday moods.

I am getting
really ******,
as I hear
those who
spreads fear
and ignorance
make claims
like this is
worse than
being in
prison.

Seriously,
you’ve
got to be
kidding me,
this is worse
then being
locked in
a tiny cell,
a slice of hell
where you are
just a number,
just cheap labor
to save corporations
from having to pay
one sore lonely body
minimum wage.
Where there
is less humanity
and the guards
can get away with
treating people worse
then garbage.

Then someone
has the nerve to say
that they are slaves,
because they have to
wear a mask;
What world
are they living in
that they feel likecont.
it makes sense
to hold such
a sick pretense.
Come back
and complain
when they take
your loved ones away,
when your back is
shredded raw
from whips
and this is
supported by the law.
Please remind me
how this
inconvenience is
relative to slavery.

You got some *****,
like when cops
treat the innocent
like they are
thugs that need to be
imprisoned,
then turn around
and whine
that they don’t
get a fair shot,
after another cop
shot another
black man,
tear gassed
peaceful people,
and their other
brothers in blue
just ran through
a crowed of protesters
with their police car.

They are complacent
with nearly naked eyes
that seem anesthetized.

Orderly placement
of perfect soldier ants
that accede to the demands
of the most brutal man,

their sweet layers
of complexity
are surrendered to
the wealthy few who
who do not give
one ******* ****
about the masses.

Massive stone structures
collapse and succumb
to a cog like position
under all the dictator’s
thick heavy thumbs,
making minds of
inspiration numb
with unearned dedication.

Thus, such fleeting stars
are lost from view,
dying before their sparkle
can touch me or you.

My dear I know it should be clear,
but I fear to tread and tarry here,
because your madness is so appealing.

Revealing
eyes of passion blue,
that burn with the ill-intent
of what you plan to do,

the furies you will harness
going from seriously harmless
to sinister in seconds.

Yet, red wet lips are made for stealing
the warm affections that I’m withholding,
withdrawing deposits, I should be saving
for another worthy lover,

but your disposition is enslaving,
ensnaring me in in your insanity
as if it was a bear trap.
I can feel my bones snap
as my will collapses.
So, I lay back
to submit to
what you will do.

Until, you leave me dying
and drying
from an unquenched thirst
and a deep hue of blue
that hurts worse
then the pain you caused
while you were here.

This is so strange.
Real life has become
a weird painting,
of mirrors showing
past reflections
and present hopes.

The art of love
has become
the style of dodging
bullets from guns
that are yet to come.

The nightmares
from which we run
hold no promise
of waking from
them with the
rising sun.

Either or
has transformed
neighbors into
states at war.
People who do not
know what this
violence is for
still spout off,
instead of asking
for a little more
information.

All the saints have died,
and now we spy
exhausted angels
in nurse’s attire
that collapse and cry,
while moms walk and try
to convince strangers
that their child’s life
is worth more than
a policeman’s
tarnished pride. cont.

My light is one suicide
at a time,
as love and hope
crumbles and dies
with the rich man’s finger’s
around the earth’s throat,
as the media tells
his favorite lies.

Tonight, is the fourth of July.
My neighbors sit and celebrate
a nation not yet made great
because it wallows in filth and rage,
boiled in a stinking stew of ignorance.

I will go to sleep.
Then tomorrow
as I awake and shake off
the dust
for a second, I will be certain.
I will smile with hope.
Till, I see my reflections
and remember this
is a world made from
a collection
of bad decisions
after bad decisions,
while few even listen
to the words of wisdom
that have been written.

Still, I will write this poem again,
just a little different.